Free Visiting Professor by Robert Littell

than the one you posed last night, Rebbe. Let me phrase my question another way. In paring away layers
     of seeming randomness we arrive at a terminus, which up to now has turned out to be chaos. But the real quest is only beginning.
     Is it not within therealm of possibility that this terminus, chaos, is really only a way station? Is it not equally within the realm of possibility
     that the
real
terminus, the theoretical horizon beyond which there is no other horizon, is pure, unadulterated, nonchaotic randomness?”
    There is an angry buzz in the room. “You are not really a chaoticist,” Sebastian Skarr exclaims from his seat. “You are a
     randomnist exploiting chaos—”
    The Rebbe reluctantly agrees. “In your heart of hearts, you admitted it yourself last night, you do not love chaos—”
    “Chaos is not God,” Lemuel defends himself. “In any case, I am basically a randomnist who stumbled into chaos—”
    “You admit to being ein reluctant chaoticist,” the German professor blusters. “Conzider ze pozzibility zat you have stumbled
     into ze wrong institute.”
    The Rebbe throws up his arms. “Pure, unadulterated randomness does not exist. You are chasing rainbows.”
    Lemuel is startled by the storm he has stirred. “My approach to pure randomness,” he defends himself, “is chaos-related.”
    Matilda Birtwhistle raises a finger. “Mind a question, Professor?”
    “This is getting out of hand,” the Director announces. “It’s not supposed to be a working session.”
    “The chaoticists are waxing chaotic,” Charlie Atwater notes wryly.
    “If you please,” Lemuel tells Matilda Birtwhistle.
    “You are widely known for your assertion that all randomness is fool’s randomness, and that this fool’s randomness is a footprint
     of chaos.”
    “Up to now it has unfortunately always turned out that way,” Lemuel agrees.
    “If I understand you correctly,” Birtwhistle continues, “you seem to be suggesting that chaos could turn out to be a footprint
     of randomness—”
    “Of pure, unadulterated randomness,” Lemuel corrects her.
    “Of pure, unadulterated randomness, of course. But if this proves to be the case, where will it end? Perhaps the pure, unadulterated
     randomness that comes after chaos is, in its turn, merely a footprint of something else—”
    “Maybe it’sh a footprint of pure, unadulterated chaosh,” Charlie Atwater interjects.
    The visiting professor from Germany scrapes back his chair indisgust. “You ask me, he iz looking for pure randomnezz—okay, vy not? Everyone haz eine ax to grind—but vat he found iz pure
     ridiculouznezz.”
    There is a ripple of nervous laughter, which quickly subsides. The luncheon guests gaze expectantly at the speaker at the
     head of the parenthesis.
    Lemuel collects his thoughts. “When it was discovered, the molecule was, in a manner of speaking, a footprint of the atom.
     The atom turned out to be, among other things, a footprint of a nucleus, the nucleus a footprint of protons and neutrons,
     which we now think are footprints of mesons and quarks. But what are quarks a footprint of? Who can say you they are not a
     footprint of something buried deeper inside them?”
    “Matilda is right,” Sebastian Skarr calls from his seat. “If what you say is true, the voyage will never end. There is no
     terminus.”
    “We are not chaoticists,” Matilda Birtwhistle informs her colleagues, “so much as space travelers condemned to spend eternity
     exploring an endless universe.”
    Lemuel shrugs. “We will reach a terminus when we discover a single example of pure, unadulterated randomness. At which point
     we will know that everything under the sun is not determined—that man, woman also, is the master of his fate.”
    “And if there is no such thing as pure, unadulterated randomness,” Matilda Birtwhistle retorts, “what then?”
    Lemuel, suddenly exhausted, mumbles, “You are all doorknobs.”
    “Speak up, Professor,” someone